


Isolation

by savaged



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Multi, Spoilers, loooots of spoilers, series' exploration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 02:05:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3156935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savaged/pseuds/savaged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alone in a shack of Alaska, Jesse finds himself yet again exploring his past.</p><p>set post-ending, weary thoughts, a fireplace, chocolate & snow</p>
            </blockquote>





	Isolation

What do you have– when your god is dead? What's left in you? To _whom_ do you beg? Where do your claims go?

 

The man sways the hot mug anxiously between his hands and the steam dances. An orange beam of flames biting down a log show in his tired eyes, his lips twist under the dark amber thick hairs of his ever growing beard. He remembers. It's the only way he can cope with the past, sit tight at the wooden chair before the fireplace with his nails digging his arms, or a mug, and let his thoughts drift.

It's a story, bedtime type, that he shows himself some times. It repeats, like an old broken record, unable to advance through the rest of the tracks.

-

 

Jane had died.

Love, lust, life; his heroine was replaced by drought and misery. Senseless missing of something that wouldn't ever return, not even after death. He cried bitterly against his pillows, hills of sorrow, drunk of sadness, hangover of pain.

He wanted a life with her. She wanted to stay with him. Well, she _would_ have.

It was a spell that shook him head to toe, a storm that dragged his rock bottom -a solid foundation- away from him, and he just kept falling and falling apart, and falling towards an uncertain black hole of insanity and endless, _vast_ possibilities of an unread story that included her in the most beautiful chapters of his young self.

He had wanted to give her the World. He had wanted to see the World with her.

But Jane had died.

 

Then there was Gale, standing somewhere in his mind.

He felt nothing.

He felt the last light of his vacant eyes, the loud bang of the gun, the weird scent of an odd apartment, the ache of his feet while running. The ache of his head processing the weakness of human life. The ache of his head. His _own_ wicked mess of a human life.

There was time to consider the events and even a support group that he somehow turned into their meth-buying clients, people that were trying to get another chance and cure themselves. He turned them in like they were rusty iron screws being blown away by the storm and he was a magnet. A dirty bag of iron screws ready to be sold to a proper carpenter, like himself.

 

But he couldn't stand being blown away.

Mexico was unfriendly, dry, hot, cold at night. Gus was a man of wealth and taste in all its rights and wrongs under a mask of sympathy; taste for _blood_ as Mr. White was convinced.

He couldn't stand being someone else's toy neither. A punchline. An untrustworthy _loyal_ junkie. He had had enough of that.

 

And back through the desert there was no home, only blue prayers like Mary's holy garment covering sinners who lost their ways and a couple of days of solemn comfort at Heisenberg's dying arms. He'd have given five years of his life to keep him one more, burnt all his money; his house, his life– To keep him one more. He'd given all.

It was fun as the first person that saw potential in him; he had roughly twenty springs, an easy smile, poor methods but fast learning. And Mr. White had cancer. Which represented Jesse's bad social choices or rather a wicked fate to everyone that he approached –he'd conceive that Heisenberg _liked_ to isolate him, keep him for himself, ravish all the good that came into his life– to feel safe under his silent glare.

And _he was_ , until the moment he wasn't anymore. And maybe he had never been.

He was his whole religion. Mr. White made an atheist of him.

After the realization, everything started to go slow. Strange, during the fall. The final ground hit hard after all the lost foundation, he could see stars behind locked bars but they didn't sparkle, there was no infinite sky.

Mr. White had given him the World. And Jesse had wanted to see the World with him, but Mr White died.

 

And sometimes it's like a zoo on his bed, curvy figures that won't let him sleep, digital animals carving their cries onto his head, the brave whirl and growl of breeze between copper woods and pines made of iron violating his private property.

There's a tall fence around his mind that won't let the cries come out, the difficult and complex suffering that has grown to tangled springs and sharp wires. His synapses tend to fall asleep as his limbs lose control; the mug drops to the wooden floor and rolls closer to the flames of the fireplace.

Up the frozen ways, through the fogged up glass, he can see a traveler. A sinner, an angel, a martyr. A believer. He shakes the reflection out of his head but it still stands there.

 _There goes another poor bastard_ , he says, and gets the riffle from the corner of the wooden shack.

 

 


End file.
